South of the River
by Beth Winter
Summary: The Saints venture out of the territory, and find themselves encroaching on someone else's. Crossover with Once Upon A Time In Mexico.


SOUTH OF THE RIVER

New Mexico, Smecker decided, was pretty close to the hell on Earth il Duce was always babbling about. The temperature was about right, he'd take sulphur over stale sweat any time, and he certainly felt like he was spitted on a spear and roasted on an open fire. Wasn't that what they did to fags Down Below?

No wonder Papa McManus had chosen to stay north of the Mississippi.

Smecker cursed Armando Vilca. The fucker could have had the courtesy to get his picture taken so that he, Smecker, could be chilling with il Duce instead of going into the tavern like a sitting duck, just to point the fucker out to his avenging angels.

"I wanna try the food," Murphy said as they stepped through the restaurant's door. "It's supposed to be fucking brilliant here."

"You're Irish, what do you know about food?" Smecker snapped. "Your lot don't eat it unless it's been boiled, fried and then thrown in a bog." His eyes were still adjusting to the tavern's darkness. Bar over there, stage next to it, some Spic axe-bashers tuning up their guitars to the side, then-

"Try the puerco pilbil. It's delicious."

The McManus brothers reached for their guns, but Smecker smacked their hands impatiently. Probably just a friendly local, he told himself, no reason to panic and spook Vilca too soon.

Then he turned. The speaker was unfamiliar, but not local - pale skin, black clothes in this sun, dark glasses throwing dagger-sharp cheekbones into relief. _Mine are better_, Smecker thought petulantly.

The other guy at the table by the door was familiar to Smecker, from one course at Quantico too many. And retired, if he remembered the Bureau bulletins. "Ramirez, what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Sightseeing." The old fox was smiling like he didn't care. "You'd think it's just like Mexico, but you'd be surprised."

Smecker sneered. At his sides, the twins were carefully blank. "And the rentboy?"

An even whiter smile in the dark. "Watch your fucking language, fairy."

Ramirez raised a hand. "He calls this interagency cooperation. Sheldon Sands, meet Paul Smecker and-?"

Sands leaned forward. His nostrils flared, like he was sniffing the air. "They're Connor and Murphy McManus. Here to see señor Vilca, I'd say."

The restaurant was growing quiet around them. All the guests, Smecker noticed, were men in ill-fitting suits. Apart from Ramirez, Sands and the musicians in the corner. What was that Mexican word for them?

"They've known you were coming since this morning," Ramirez said quietly. "There are fifty men, all armed. Ten submachine guns."

Connor smiled. "What the fuck are we supposed to say now?"

Sands cocked his head like a curious cat. "Say 'please'."

There was a rumble as chairs were pulled back and guns cocked. Connor and Murphy crossed themselves. Smecker cursed.

A guitar case creaked, and it was magic, the way all eyes flew towards it. Gunmetal, gleaming.

And then, hell.

Smecker didn't know who tripped him up. All he knew was that he was lying flat and Sands was firing over him, the gun still under the table. He could have sworn the fucker had had both hands on the table seconds before.

Vilca's goons fell like trees. The twins were holed up behind the bar, shooting and reloading in turns. Someone was between the tables on the far side of the bar, because twenty of Vilca's men were there, then only sixteen and four cooling bodies.

"Motherfucker!" Smecker yelped when a goon stepped on him. Then he had other things to worry about, because the guy jumped up on the table and backhanded Sands. Sands' sunglasses skittered on the floor next to Smecker, and he picked them up instinctively.

He got ready to jump the guy, since Sands' gun was still trapped under the table, but then the goon's head disappeared in a gust of flame.

Smecker was still blinking when Sands dragged him behind a pile of fallen chairs.

"Cutting it close, you ferret-assed fucker!" Sands yelled out as he reloaded his gun. Smecker only looked at him.

Sands' eyes were gone. There were just two dark holes, fallen-in, the edges a macabre shade of pink.

Before Smecker could stop gaping long enough to get his own gun, the room fell quiet. They stood up.

The three guitarists, all in black and silver, were stalking the room, guns and - right, had to be the flamethrower - at the ready. Ramirez was making sure everyone was decently dead.

One bloody body moved under his hand. "Vilca," he said. "Sands, he's-"

The twins were first to him. Ramirez stepped aside as they dragged Vilca to his knees and aimed their guns.

"Hey!" Sands shouted. "Fucker owes me! He's mine!"

Smecker thought of telling him there was no use. The Saints had a sinner to punish now.

"And shepherds we shall be, for Thee my Lord for Thee..."

Sands raised his gun. His lips pulled back, baring his teeth. The inside of his mouth was the same shade of pink as the inside of his eyes.

"Power hath descended forth from thy hand, that our feet may swiftly carry out thy command..."

He was using the prayer, Smecker realised. Triangulating on the voices and guessing where Vilca's head would be. Aiming blind.

"We shall flow a river forth to thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be."

A bang, too early, and Vilca fell back with a hole between his eyes.

The twins trained their guns on Sands.

Then two of the musicians put their guns to the brothers' heads. The third - mariachi, that was it - the mariachi stepped between them.

"Your work is good, but do it back north." His voice was low, and his hair fell over his face. He was shorter than the McManuses, but somehow he towered over them. "Mexico can take care of herself."

Guitars with guns, flamethrowers, an eyeless psycho marksman and killer mariachis on a mission. Smecker felt so much out of his depth, he could stand on the Empire State Building and still not reach the surface.

(FINIS)


End file.
